Golden
by ice cream soup
Summary: "All things golden belong to me." A teenage Thief King tangles paths with a certain Marik Ishtar, neither willing to give up their secrets or their ambitions. In the end, they might both end up breaking as Egypt itself falls apart. Eventual Citronshipping
1. Starving Jackals

"_Hello? A-Anyone there?"_

_A middle-aged man cried out hoarsely, voice cracking from both exhaustion and relief as the foreign village seemed to teeter dizzily before him. They were alive. They were alive!_

_Too dried-out for tears, he settled for burying his face in the precious bundle he clutched desperately to his chest. His infant son, sand-clogged eyes clumped shut, was too far gone to bawl in complaint of his cracked lips and shriveled belly. "I'm sorry," the man whispered, hoping that his son would be able to hang on for just a little longer._

_He jerked up as a hand suddenly clamped him roughly on the shoulder, and he came face-to-face with a younger man._

"_Hey, whatcha got there?" he piped up excitedly, "Stolen goods? Weapons? Beer?"_

"_A child," the older man rasped, carefully keeping the top of his son's head hidden beneath swaths of cloth. "Please, we need food and drink, if you would be so ki—"_

"_Well why didn'cha say so?" the sanguine youth interrupted, slinging an arm around the other's back and steering him into the village. He cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted, "Hey everyone! It's another newcomer! …Er..."_

_The young man turned to his weary guest with a quirked eyebrow. "Uh, what's your name?"_

_Practically trembling at this incredible show of hospitality, the stranger answered, "It no longer matters—I have cut almost all ties with my former life. But you can call me Mshai."_

_Nodding unquestioningly, the young man resumed calling out, "Oi! Get off your asses and get some grub for Mshai and his child, here! …And maybe some for me, too!"_

_The traveler Mshai stared in amazement as hordes of villagers poured out of their modest, lopsided mud-brick houses. His first instinct was to flee when he saw several monstrous, tattooed men lurch forward meanly, but he just ended up gawking at the bright-eyed children that poked grubby heads from behind their sinewy legs._

_Blinking to clear his own mind, Mshai looked at the villagers again. They were hulking, dirty, disfigured even—and most of them were families. He observed with interest as the young man who had guided him now strode into the crowd to embrace his sweetheart, guffawing and spinning her around on a whim._

_As he took all this in, he became aware that every single pair of eyes were focused intently on him and his son, and he looked down self-consciously. A scruffy boy detached from the chattering crowd to approach him, neck craning upwards inquisitively._

"_What's his name?" he questioned, tugging on Mshai's arm and hopping incessantly in an attempt to get a view of his son._

_His hand groping blindly, the swaths on the child's brow were swept aside, revealing unnatural silver locks._

_Mshai froze._

_The twittering villagers fell silent, staring at the child's impossible hair in astonishment. Backing away tersely, Mshai forced out, "_Sorry for bothering you all—thank you for your time—w-we'll just be leaving now._" He spun around and bolted, not waiting to see if they pursued._

_When strong-armed hands began closing around his shoulders, he blindly wrenched himself every which way as he desperately tried to escape. "Don't hurt him! Let us go!" he burst out when the hands didn't loosen._

"_Easy, easy! It's okay!" cried a gravelly voice. Peering down at him with raised eyebrows, a grizzled man held him steadily until he calmed down. "We're not going to hurt anybody. Okay?"_

_Gasping at the adrenaline that shook his body, Mshai's eyes darted over the villagers that just continued to regard him with unthreatening interest. "B-But he's… don't you all know, he's—"_

_Amongst them, a bald woman merely smiled. "He's perfectly lovely, dear."_

_At that, all Mshai could do was gape as other men and women nodded their heads in agreement, and the bald woman proceeded forward and stroked his son's hair without a sign of repulsion._

"_Oh, he's so cute!" she cooed, "And such a pretty shade of silver, too!"_

_It was around then that Mshai pitched forward, suddenly feeling like his legs were too weak to support his weight._

"_Whoa, there!" exclaimed the enormous grizzled man as he caught the dumbfounded traveler, practically lifting him off the ground. He raised his head to bark at the others, "Hey! Didn't anyone feed this guy?" Almost at once, several villagers hastily pivoted on their heels and rushed to their homes to offer their meals._

_Mshai shook his head for a moment, before saying breathlessly, "You don't understand—he's supernatural, he's _different!_"_

_Helping the flustered traveler stand upright, the large man asked shrewdly, "And does that _matter_?"_

_It was only after a few steadying inhalations that Mshai could answer, "Everyone else seems to think it does." His exhausted voice betrayed the remnants of a long, bitter journey as a haunted glow took hold of his eyes._

_Bowing his head and tracing his son's gleaming bangs with his thumb, the traveler quietly said, "When he was born, his mother tried to drown him. So I took him and left, but… well. We were chased out of every village we went to, hardly given any rest or shelter; everyone took one look at him and said he was cursed. They treated us as if he were a disease that could be caught."_

_The villagers left to listen to the newcomer's tale nodded in understanding. The grizzled man made a noise of disgust. "It wouldn't be the first time. Lately there's been a lot of talk of children with strange appearances and strange powers—and of the terrible things that have been done to them." With that, he spat onto the ground with clear repugnance, as if that was all that needed to be said._

_Mshai shuddered and drew his child closer. "Fear makes people blind. Nowadays, hospitality is rarely afforded to those who are different."_

_It was then that the muscle-bound man offered a warm, crinkling smile beneath his wild beard. "Then welcome to Kul-Elna, my friend. Here, everyone is different."_

"_Welcome" – such an unbelievably sweet-sounding word. For the first time in a long, long while, Mshai smiled. "I… I think I noticed," he joked with a weak laugh, beginning to appreciate fully how wonderfully abnormal the village was._

_His grey eyes landed with new comprehension on the swords that rested at the villagers' sides, on their unkempt appearances, on how there appeared to be people of seemingly varying races and backgrounds standing so comfortably together; these people were outcasts. Perhaps they had ended up here the same as him—lost with nowhere else to go, yet strangely finding their way with people as lost as themselves. Perhaps…_

"…_Would you be so kind as to let us stay here? Just until we're back on our feet, at least," he asked, an unbearable surge of _hope_ beating in his chest._

_The townspeople buzzed in unanimous approval._

"_What, you don't want to live here? Do we really smell that bad?" the grizzled man boomed jocularly._

"_L-live…," Mshai stammered, "I mean of course, that would be incredible—"_

"_You can live with me!" a one-eyed woman volunteered, winking at him with her remaining eye. "I could always use the extra company."_

"_I have a spare room," offered another._

_One of the hulking tattooed men announced, "My daughter would love a new play-mate!"_

_Astounded, Mshai could barely contain his gratitude as he was directed deeper into the village, where warm houses and warm arms were open to welcome them._

_In the midst of the lively chatter, he ducked his head down to offer a joyous expression to his child. "Bakura," he whispered to his son, "We're home."_

* * *

><p>Prince Atem crept through the palace halls, the orange torchlight casting fragmented shadows across every wall. Going at a painfully slow pace so that his clinking jewelry wouldn't be heard, he reached the courtyard and hid behind a pillar with bated breath.<p>

Unawares that they were being heard, Priest Akhenaden and Priest Shadhi paced through the dry night air as they exchanged sober words.

"Violence and crime within the capital city are still on the rise," reported Shadhi, the Millennium Key glinting as it hung from a length of twine around his neck. "With the pharaoh so ill and unable to rule, there has been a severe breakdown of authority. I am beginning to fear the worst…"

Nodding stiffly, Priest Akhenaden asked hoarsely, "Do you think the pharaoh is going to…?"

Upon hearing the priests talk about his father, Atem grew rigid and tense against the stone pillar, awaiting that dreaded word.

"…Die?" Shadhi finished for the older priest in a reluctant whisper. "I do not wish to think it, but it is possible; the doctors and shamans have done their best, with no promising results…" He paused to glance at Akhenaden.

The man's long pepper-colored hair was streaked with bone white, and dark creases cut across his strong features. Atem had noted this before with curiosity—Priest Akhenaden always seemed to look so much older and tireder than Father for some reason, even though their ages couldn't have been much different.

With a sigh, Shadhi said, "I apologize. I should not talk of such stressful topics with you; I just keep forgetting that the pharaoh is your brother, considering all of the formalities you are still made to keep as his servant."

Something about that statement made the older man stir imperceptibly, as if something uncomfortable had been awakened. "No, no… it is quite alright. You _were_ just recently appointed, after all, and I'm sure you've had more than enough to keep your mind busy." Expression unreadable, Akhenaden stopped walking to stare at the blackened sky. Whispy strands of hair fell from his face to expose the hard, chilled gold of the Millennium Eye in his eye socket.

He mused, "If he does die, then I suppose that means that his son Atem will be the one to take the throne…" It sounded a bit strange to the prince, the way Akhenaden said it—the same kind of strangeness one feels when someone unpleasantly breathes into your ear so that your very spine seems to crawl—or perhaps he was just imagining things.

Either way, he didn't stick around any longer—he had heard more than enough. Struggling to sneak away as silently as he had arrived, Atem tip-toed away until he was out of earshot, then straightened and began sprinting through the echoing halls, face screwing as he attempted to push down feelings of grief.

Maybe the priests were wrong. Maybe the doctors were wrong. He _would_—he _had_ to get better.

Now out of breath, he stopped dead in front of a doorway, staring into a cavernous, unlit room.

A supine silhouette of a bed-ridden man shifted as if awakening. "Son," he exhaled weakly, "Where did you go?"

"…Nowhere, Father," Atem softly answered, stepping forward and returning to his vigil by the sickly Pharaoh's bedside. Clasping a hand around his father's cold weathered one, he blinked back tears in the terribly quiet darkness.

* * *

><p>"All things golden belong to me"—that was the belief that the Thief King lived by.<p>

And right now, laid in front of him was indeed a _lot_ of gold.

A slick smile widened on the teen's angular features, which coupled with his pinprick, predatory pupils and the scar that tapered from the bottom of his eye, gave him a truly wicked appearance.

"Excellent work, men," he absently commended, striding past three of his companions who were slumped panting against the limestone walls. They had taken shelter for the night in the entrance to yet another tomb—_whose_ tomb, he couldn't care less. There were dozens of pharaohs, queens, and nobles buried within the Valley of the Kings, and the Thief King raided them indiscriminately. He was a fair man, after all.

"K-King," a young man croaked, the scanty moonlight highlighting the streaks of sweat down his face, "We should probably… call it… a night."

With groans of fatigue, the other men nodded their identically black-haired heads in agreement. Bakura ran a hand through his silver bangs with exaggerated exasperation.

"You're already complaining, Wati? After just a little heavy lifting?" he asked with an amused gleam in his eyes. "It's not like you've never carried a sarcophagus before." He motioned to the golden casket that had been unceremoniously thrown face-down on the floor.

Still short on breath, Wati protested incredulously, "Easy… for you to say! Do you even know… how heavy sarcophagi _are_?"

"If you spent less time complaining and more time working, you'd be in better shape," chuckled a leathery-skinned man beside him. With a grunt, he stood laboriously, towering over the rest of the group. "But in all honesty, King, I think you've already proven yourself by now. You don't have to clear out every tomb in the Necropolis."

As of late, the King of Thieves had seemingly made it his objective to ransack whatever sacred burial chamber he could find, though not for the riches; as a master of his trade and the unofficial yet revered leader of bandits big and small, he already had access to ill-gotten wealth that rivaled the pharaoh's in value.

Though his followers couldn't fathom why, what he was really after was the act of sacrilege itself, of the extraction of the gilded sarcophagi and the scattering their mummies across the land to gradually decay in the open, no doubt to the horror and outrage of the people of Egypt. But he still had yet to glean complete vindication from his bizarre mission, and as it were the men that accompanied him had been gone from their encampment for days; they relied on it as a place to restock, rest up, and pool resources with the rest of the thieves that had been taken under Bakura's wing, and they were presently worn thin from going so long without it.

Replying to his gruff, large-built associate, Bakura said, "Nebi, I'm not stopping until the pharaoh himself knows my name."

With a deliberate show of nonchalance, he stepped lightly towards the mouth of the tomb as if to enjoy the view. In the distance, the moon's bleached skeleton grin brought a ghostly light to the desert sands, though the beauty was quickly lost on him. He knew that, somewhere, an old dead village was rotting in a long-forgotten valley.

With some discomfort, the condensed band of thieves glanced at the oddly silent back of their leader.

"King…," Nebi started hesitantly, only to be cut off as the teen raised his hand, commanding silence.

"Hold it," Bakura muttered, ears pricking at the nearing clopping of hooves. "Men, it sounds like we have company."

Reflexively, everyone drew out their daggers and swords and scrambled to their feet. They crowded around the tomb's entrance to get a proper view of the intruders.

Down below on the path that wound through the Valley of the Kings, the group rounded the corner and were now in plain sight. They bore glaring torches that made set Bakura's skin on edge, and they were all on horseback.

One person rode commandingly ahead of everyone else on a striking white stallion, and like his peers was completely concealed beneath a dark hooded cloak.

Bakura snorted. "Would ya just look at how that guy carries himself? What a pompous ass." He crossed his arms with unconcealed disdain, clearly not liking the idea of someone encroaching on his territory.

Trembling with anticipation from behind him, one of his men licked his lips hungrily. "I say we jump 'em on the count o' three! One—"

"Hang on, Odji," Nebi scolded, placing a steady hand on the man's shoulder, "Wait until the King gives his orders."

The group of intruders were now standing still, horses fidgeting uneasily on the worn earth while the hooded men glanced about suspiciously. How very subtle. These people were probably tomb robbers as well, or perhaps they had caught wind of the Thief King's whereabouts and wished to end the infamous scourge of Egypt's imperial cities. Either way, they didn't look like they were up to any good.

Wati was in a crouch by Bakura's side, looking up at the teen with impatience. "Well? Are we gonna attack or not?"

"Shut up and follow my lead," the Thief King whispered, sporting an all-too-familiar devilish grin. "We may as well have some fun tonight." Not waiting for his men to react, he leapt lightly out of the tomb and began scaling down the cliff side, experienced footfalls barely displacing a pebble.

He suppressed a snicker as he heard the flustered breaths of his men as they attempted to catch up—stealth just wasn't their thing. But given the conspicuousness of the torch-bearing men before him, sneaking up on them for an ambush shouldn't have been a problem—

"I know you're there."

Huh.

Concealed head jerking in Bakura's general direction, the apparent leader of the group held his torch higher. "If you're the Thief King, then show yourself," he ordered, voice muffled by a cloth wrapped over his mouth and nose to protect against the sand.

Bakura just chuckled, lazily fingering his dagger while purposefully skirting just out of sight of the revealing torch light. The flames were really starting to bother him. "Impressive; most people never hear me until it's too late. How'd you figure out where I was so quickly?"

"Intuition." The stranger cocked his head to the side, and Bakura struggled to read his expression beneath all of that ridiculous clothing. He could just make out kohl-rimmed eyes and a teasing, confident voice that rubbed him the wrong way.

"You don't say." By now the Thief King's men had reached his side, tense and staring at the opposing group in unease. Bakura kicked at a rock, watching with amusement as the disruption made the stranger twitch edgily as he squinted blindly into the shadows; the advantage was still his.

"And what's a poor, defenseless little play-group like yours doing in the Valley of the Kings?" he mocked. "Haven't you heard? There's some bad, scary men that live here, and they really hate trespassers."

Against Bakura's expectations, the stranger burst out in shrill laughter. "You're calling _us _a play-group? I take this to mean you've never heard of the Ghouls, then?"

Bakura scoffed. "No. Why should I freaking care?"

The stranger drew himself up with obvious condescension. "The Ghouls are currently the most dreaded band of thieves to plague the city of Thebes. I had thought that everyone involved in crime would have known about their fearsome reputation by now."

Sensing the challenge posed in the leader's voice, Bakura remarked dryly, "Doesn't ring a bell. And as _fearsome_ as I'm sure they are, they should be careful to stay on their own turf. The King of Thieves has already laid claim to Thebes."

"Funny—the capital city hasn't seen hide nor hair of the Thief King as of late. As far as I've heard, he's just been biding his time ransacking smelly old tombs, while new and much more competent crime lords are taking over," the stranger sneered.

Bakura bristled at the man's blatant disrespect; he had thought it would have been fun to toy with the stranger, but the guy's arrogance was getting old really fast. Faced with his notoriety, anyone else should have been prostrate with terror by now.

"And I'm guessing one of these jackass crime lords is you?" Bakura asked with a noticeable abandonment of humor.

With a sardonic, self-important chuckle, the man replied, "That's me. I'm Marik Ishtar, and I am the master of the Ghouls." With a fluid sweep of the arm, he motioned towards the cloaked followers behind him. Their heads were bowed and stilled in a peculiar silence.

Raising an eyebrow, Bakura deadpanned, "I don't give a fuck. Just tell me what you want, and then I'll decide whether to let you live or not."

At that, his men shifted their positions restlessly at his side, taut grips on their weapons making them ache. Odji was practically keening in his throat out of impatience, but Bakura just shot him a glare.

The one named Marik held up his hands. "Relax. Why should we fight, when we have diplomacy at our disposal?" Still unable to see his facial expression, Bakura had a hard time telling whether the man was joking or not. "I'd like to make a deal with you, if you're willing to listen."

With a curt bark of laughter, the King of Thieves shook his head, forgetting that his adversary wouldn't have been able to see the gesture. He was already rich and nigh-invulnerable; what leverage could this foolish brat possibly use? "You've got a lot of nerve! But I guess there's no harm in humoring you. Go on, then," he said, spreading his arms as if in welcome.

Readjusting his grip on the reins, Marik's eyes widened with ardent desire. "I want the secret to your power."

Bakura faltered. It wasn't as if no one had ever asked him something along those lines; practically everyone was after more power, and he knew he had lots of it. But the hunger that burned in Marik's voice was baffling—he didn't _want_ power, he _needed_ power—and the Thief King was, just for a second, reminded confusingly of himself. Perturbed, he chose to remain silent.

In response to the other man's conspicuous _lack_ of response, Marik began explaining himself levelly, though he leaned forward in barely subdued eagerness. "Don't act like you don't know. I've heard all the rumors—they say the Thief King can pass through walls. Kill ten men in one breath. Transform into a monster. I don't know how true any of this is, but I _do_ know that it's a mystery how you came to dominate the thieving world at such a young age, and I want to know how."

**Hm hm hm. This mortal seems pretty sharp, Bakura.**

With an intake of breath, Bakura felt dark words reverberate in his head. "Shut up," he hissed to himself. No one else noticed how the shadows lengthened all around them, or how the torches the Ghouls held briefly flared upwards.

Forcing himself to regain his composure, the King of Thieves responded, "And why should I tell you anything?"

"Because then I'll give _these_ back." Marik snapped his fingers, and in seconds a few more Ghouls came into view, galloping into the valley with several unmanned horses in tow.

In shock, Bakura and his men stared at the animals as they whinnied in distress, pulling back against the ropes that bound them to the Ghoul's own horses.

"What the fuck have you done to my horse?" the Thief King burst out lividly, making out what was unmistakably his own steed amongst the captives.

The Ghouls began backing up in unison as Marik simpered, "Such a well-trained beast. Such a shame if you didn't get it back—you must have spent years raising it. And then what will happen to your reputation when everyone hears that the King of Thieves was stolen from?"

Eyes bulging in moderate surprise, he ducked down and dodged Bakura's knife as it was thrown furiously at his head, and turned his white horse around in hasty retreat. "Whoops! I can see when I'm not wanted!" With a nod, he and the rest of the Ghouls took off.

"_Where do you fucking think you're going_?" Bakura raged, rooted where he stood for just a moment out of sheer disbelief.

Shouting gloatingly over his shoulder, Marik answered, "I'm going to give you time to think about my offer. Meet me outside of the valley at noon!" Picking up speed, the Ghouls then rounded a bend and disappeared from view amongst the cliffs.

Swearing, Bakura reached over his back to sling out his bow and arrow, sprinting after the group with his men not far behind. But when he turned around the corner, there were no horses, no Ghouls in sight. Just a starry expanse of sky where the valley gave way to flatter land—where he'd have to meet Marik later that day.

"Shit," Bakura cursed, "How could they have disappeared so damn quickly?"

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he shoved his weapons back in place. Breathing heavily, Nebi jogged up beside him, narrowing his eyes when he also saw that the Ghouls had vanished.

"…They had more than four horses," he noted.

"I know."

"That means that they've stolen from the others back at camp."

"_I know._"

"That means that they know where we all live—"

"_I fucking know_!"

"We shouldn't have stayed separated from the others for so long."

Seething too much to bother responding to such useless hindsight, Bakura just turned on his heel and shoved Nebi aside, marching back towards the tombs.

It was going to be a very bad day.

* * *

><p>"M-Master Marik?"<p>

"_What_?" the young man snapped as he dismounted from his white steed, lowering his hood to reveal strikingly blond hair.

The moon was sinking lower in the sky as his band of thieves collectively led their horses by the reins towards the bank of the Nile, so that they might all drink.

The Thief King's horses were being noticeably uncooperative, neighing and straining against their reins and nearly toppling the Ghouls that were struggling to subdue them.

"I, uh, I have some reservations about, um, t-this plan of yours…," one of his servants spoke meekly, looking down at his own feet.

Sighing for no particular reason other than to make the man uncomfortable, Marik shrugged as he unwrapped the dark cloth from his mouth, exposing his entire face. His soft features were arranged in irreversible harshness, violet eyes barbed and threatening like a hard-shelled scorpion sting. "I've already thought everything out. I told you not to talk unless it was important."

"B-But master, if you return to the Thief King in person, when he's already _expecting _you, he'll just kill you!" Immediately, the servant flinched as if expecting punishment for his outburst.

To his surprise, Marik chuckled lowly, though it didn't make him any less fearful. Somehow his master's laughs were a little too scalding to sound lighthearted. "I know that. There's no way he's going to let us keep his horses, or his secrets. So we're going to let him have both."

In timid silence, his servant watched in puzzlement as Marik calmly drank from a pouch of water. The young man continued, "In fact, after our meeting with the Thief King, he'll be walking away with more than he bargained for…"

"P-Pardon?"

Marik smirked, the gesture distorted by the shadows cast on his face as a small bonfire sputtered unevenly on the sand. "Don't worry about it. I'll give you all a briefing once the sun rises."

Thinking better than to push for more answers, his servant muttered a quick "As you wish, master" before scurrying away; whatever hazardous plan his master could have in store, it would probably be less dangerous than if he were to make the young man angry.

Left alone, Marik stared down at the little fire as he rested a hand on the neck of his horse, fingers fidgeting in its ivory-spun hairs. He took some brief comfort in the bright flames, the cold bite in his eyes thawing to their orange glow.

He was so close.

So close.

If he could pull this off, then he could find _them_.

Tan fingers wrapped around a pendant that hung from his neck, Marik watched the waters of the Nile searchingly until dawn broke over the horizon.

* * *

><p>Bakura was a master of improvisation—but he also liked to be prepared.<p>

Which was why he and his men were armed to the teeth, itching to slit the throats of the bastards that were impudent enough to catch them off-guard.

The sun had peaked in the sky, and being unaccustomed to being awake, much less outside at this time of day, the band of thieves found the heat to be irritatingly stifling.

But as they blinked away itching beads of sweat and their impatience rose for the Ghouls' arrival, they didn't dare voice their complaints. Just one look at their leader shied them into silence—his jaw was taut, his movements unusually tightened and conservative, much the same way a snake would deceptively coil in on itself before the strike.

Aside from his formidable temper in and of itself, there was always something about Bakura when he was truly, wholly angry that inspired a kind of rapturous terror in his followers. The monster that slept within him—that was what made the Thief King's enemies flee screaming, what made the onlookers break into shivering perspiration and pledge their allegiance to him on the spot.

There were hints of when the monster was stirring; the boy's silver hair would almost seem to bristle and spike up like lightning, and the pigment in his eyes would bleach out into a steely color.

It was because of these tell-tale signals that his men currently stood a few wary feet from him and held their tongues in unusual timidity.

When the Ghouls finally appeared in the distance, Bakura just narrowed his eyes and made a "tch" noise, lips pulled back just-so in a chilled sneer. He wasn't upset just because his horse was taken—underneath everything, he also loathed the idea that someone had bested him.

As he had gotten older and more experienced, he had grown accustomed to winning every single time, because there was one big thing he had to do before he died, and how else was he going to prove to himself that he was ready to pull it off?

Failure was never an option, and with that in mind he knew he still needed to be more powerful.

As the moments passed, all soon realized how the Ghouls had disappeared so quickly the prior night—as they rode, their horses cleaved through the miles with ease, hooves pounding at a dizzying pace. The Thief King's frown deepened, reluctantly impressed; he had never seen anyone travel so swiftly before.

When the party arrived with a cloud of dust, his own horses were quivering and frothing at their mouths as they were dragged along, exhausted from having to keep up.

Odji jumped to his feet and unsheathed his sword, eyes bulging out in their typical nervous manner, and Bakura had to raise a stilling arm to prevent the rest of his men from killing the Ghouls on the spot.

As much as he wanted to see the damned fools drowning in their own blood, he wanted some answers from their master before he acted.

"…Where's Marik?" Bakura interrogated sharply, quickly picking up the absence of the man's white stallion. Amongst the congregation of men and animals, there were only roan and black horses.

One of the Ghouls just inclined his head curtly. "He did not feel it necessary to attend," came his carefully dispassionate reply.

Bakura growled. Of course the bastard would be too full of himself to even bother coming—the coward probably wasn't willing to risk his neck in the Thief King's presence again.

Reflexively he searched for his own steed, relaxing when he finally sighted it unscathed. But oddly enough, there was some boy planted uncomfortably atop its back. His torso was bared and he wasn't garbed in those stupid robes that the other Ghouls wore, and judging by the shackles clamped on his wrists and ankles he was most likely a prisoner of some sort.

"What's that boy doing on my horse?" Bakura demanded, cocking his head in the teen's direction.

The Ghoul who had spoken before once more responded, "He's our servant. We have him tend to the horses."

"By 'servant', I take it you mean 'captive'," Bakura remarked critically, giving a pointed look at the chains that bound the boy. "He does not accompany you willingly."

The prisoner opened his mouth as if to speak, but the Ghoul nearest to him must have shot him a glare beneath its hood, because he hurriedly fell silent and shrank down.

Further scorn bubbled in the Thief King's chest. What, Marik's _servants_ need servants now?

"I've had enough. Now tell me what I want to know." Head held high, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down on his enemies… which was a notable achievement, considering that they were all on level ground and the Ghouls were raised on horseback.

"Just who is your leader, exactly? How did he know where to find the rest of my men? It should have been impossible to locate us," Bakura catechized a bit sorely, the back of his neck prickling at the thought of his whereabouts being leaked into the public. He had just about hit his last nerve.

"Have you forgotten our deal? If you want your pitiful animals back, you have to answer _our_ questions," a Ghoul spoke contemptuously.

Standing ready and alert, Nebi glanced at Bakura's feral teeth-bearing smile with recognition. He nodded at the other men, and they took a collective step back.

Voice low and menacing, the King of Thieves simpered, "Let me rephrase my question, then." His eyes flashed with the same kind of savage finality as a lion's would with the snap of the neck of its prey.

A blinding white light burst from his chest, making the Ghouls cry out in surprise and their horses back away in alarm. Suddenly, towering above everyone was a shining alabaster creature, with the upper body of a statuesque man that tapered down into the twisted form of a snake. Bulging muscles flexing as it leered impassively down at the party, it unfurled sturdy ivory wings with a blast of air.

The captive boy's eyes widened and his mouth parted in awe.

"Meet my ka, Diabound. I'm sure you'll get along nicely—so long as you don't let him tear your heads off," Bakura announced boastfully. "So here's our new deal: give my back my horses, tell me what I want to know, and then maybe I won't kill you all."

Cantering backwards, the Ghouls' horses kept their moist eyes glued onto the looming monster, and their riders shook where they gripped onto the reins. They exchanged concealed glances before one spoke up tremulously, "W-We won't answer any of your demands!"

Feigning a pouting disappointment, Bakura replied, "Suit yourselves." His looming ka descended upon them, the very air that surrounded it seeming to contort with unseen energy. Thrusting his open palm into their direction, Bakura exclaimed, "Helical shockwave!"

Straightening attentively, the captive boy watched as the Ghouls skittered back before hesitantly slowing when nothing appeared to be happening. A beat later, and a thunderous surge blew the entire party off the ground, raising a whirlwind of debris that smacked unsparingly into the Thief King and his men with the sting of scalding water.

As Bakura winced and lost focus, Diabound wavered before diving back into the depths of his heart, disappearing completely.

Wiping the grit off of his face, he saw that the blast had torn the binds off of all the horses as the Ghouls scrambled to their feet, some clutching at their newly acquired injuries. Moving efficiently, he jammed two fingers into his mouth and whistled, all of his horses pricking up at the ears and galloping back towards their master. With some dismay as he vaulted onto his own stallion, he noticed that it had a limp.

"Shit," he muttered, patting its neck almost apologetically, no doubt in his mind that his attack was the cause of its injury.

"'Shit' is right!" Wati coughed from behind, sand streaming down from his hair as he pointed ahead furiously, "They're getting away!"

He was right. Though their movements were lopsided and much slower than before, the Ghouls had managed to mount their horses and were making a haphazard escape. Jaw clenching in frustration, Bakura dug his heels into his steed, but as the beast lunged forward it was clear that with its injury it couldn't go at half their speed.

"Just let them go," said Nebi as he examined his horse, "With the horses as tired as they are from being dragged along everywhere, they'd never catch up."

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Bakura glared at their shrinking figures irately. Those bastards would pay someday.

Wati huffed with similar frustration. "Your ka went completely overboard, you know! You could have killed us all!" he exclaimed with exaggeration, trailing off submissively when the King of Thieves shot him a menacing look.

The man had never grievously harmed any of his fellow thieves before if they hadn't deserved it, but the crocodile-toothed snarl he had on his face suggested that he was about to. "I had everything under control," Bakura seethed adamantly. "I always do. So shut your bitching mouth and let's get going."

"Ah, so we can finally get back to camp and the others? Excellent," Nebi noted lightly, not seeming to be intimidated by the dour atmosphere, and mounted his frazzled steed while the others followed suit. "Anyways, we'd better get these babies back to their masters." Thick neck muscles bulging, he jerked his head back in the direction of the several other horses that were riderless.

"Well, their _masters_ should have been able to fucking take care of them." Bakura swore those good-for-nothing associates of his would pay hell and then some as soon as he got back.

Half-twisting his back, he only made a nominal glance at the procession behind him to ensure that everyone's horses were there. No one had bothered to fasten the rest of the animals to the ones that had riders—they were trained and loyal enough to know to follow the crowd.

Chattering irritably to himself and fidgeting incessantly like a crackling fire, Odji awkwardly threw his head straight back in a show of impatience. "Let's go! If we end up staying out in the sun any longer than we have to, I'm going to go crazy!"

"Too late for that," the Thief King grumbled under his breath, and brusquely took hold of his reins as if to drive everyone forward before pausing abruptly. "Ah. Right."

His eyes landed on the captive boy some distance away, no doubt having been blown clear off Bakura's horse when Diabound attacked. Movements hampered by the chains that had apparently withstood the blast, he was still struggling to his feet. Or perhaps he had been hurt, too…

Aggravation only slightly fizzling out from this distraction, the Thief King told the others, "Hold on. I've gotta handle this."

Urging his steed forward tentatively, he found that it could still proceed just fine so long as it was kept to a canter, and made his way towards the floundering young man. From afar he noticed with springing interest that the boy's hair, which hung in curtains about his bowed face as he attempted to straighten up, was captivatingly light—like a golden idol bathed in milk, or ivory sands glowing with sunlight.

Bakura's lips pressed together grimly. It didn't matter how nice the kid _looked_, in the end—it was which side he would choose.

As the King of Thieves neared, he drew out a long, densely-crafted sword—he typically disliked using it, because it was so hefty—and held it aloft.

Now beneath the shadow of his arm, the young man stared up at him almost calculatingly, though his violet eyes seemed stretched haplessly wide as they traced the glinting outline of the blade. And then their gazes locked.

The boy's pupils bored right into Bakura's with a cutthroat violence that had the effect of something sinking its talons into his jugular and pulling him down into the river—there was the icy, brutal slap of the water on his face, there was the dizzying spinning out-of-control as he was plunged into churning currents, there was the fathomless darkness and not knowing where was up and _not being able to breathe—_and the boy blinked, and the moment passed. And, face blanched but impassively masked, Bakura inhaled quietly.

From his elevated vantage point, he regarded the stranger more carefully, both as if he were something fragile and something dangerous at the same time.

"Will you come with me?" Bakura asked almost softly. He normally voiced that question as a demand to the people he came across— "Join me, or die" – but somehow that kind of crassness didn't feel appropriate right now, in the same way it wouldn't feel right to shout when no one is around to hear. Regardless, the options he offered were the same.

The teen glanced from the blade to his face with dawning comprehension and swallowed, offering a wan smile.

"Only if we are going the same way."

The words felt feathery to Bakura, tickling and irritating in that they hinted at something, yet floating out of his reach when he tried to grasp at what that something was. Jaw clenched, he tightened his grip on the sword hilt and, as the other teen flinched, he brought the blade crashing down decisively.

Tinkling, a few rusty links fell to the ground as the rest of the chains hung loosely from the captive's metal bindings, having been chopped effectively in half. Chest hitching as it rose and fell tumultuously, the now-free teen just barely swayed as if dazed before hesitatively spreading his aching limbs apart.

"Next time I ask you something, you'd better give me a straight answer. Freaking smart-aleck," Bakura muttered, sheathing his sword and flicking his head to where his men and the rest of the horses were waiting a ways off. "Get on a horse and don't give us any problems while we travel, alright? I'm sure my ka could squash you like an insect if you decide to be as insufferable as one."

Crisply turning his stallion around, Bakura began heading leisurely back as the former prisoner had to jog briskly to keep up, chains rattling incessantly. "So you're taking me with you?" he questioned slightly out of breath, not so much from the exertion as from the scare the other had given him.

"Unless you'd rather take your chances in the desert by yourself—I'm sure that without any food, water, or means of travel other than your own two feet, you'd do just fine," Bakura snarked. "I really don't care if we _are _going the same way or not—I'm sure there's a home you could return to or something, but I'm not gonna baby-sit you and escort you there."

To his surprise, rather than reacting with indignation, the stranger just shrugged. "I don't mind. My hometown had been destroyed when the Ghouls came and ransacked everything, and as everyone evacuated and I straggled behind, they happened upon me and took me as their slave. Having been separated from my people for so long, I have no idea where they are now, and have long since given up hope of ever seeing them again." He spoke with disquieting calmness, as if he were merely talking about the weather, but it didn't stop Bakura from feeling a tendril of sympathy.

His own memories came flooding back all too easily—the burning buildings, the screaming villagers pouring out of their crumbling houses, only to fall into the waiting maws of the dead-eyed soldiers—and the iron lump of hatred in his chest grew.

The dark voice in the back of his mind came back—though really, it had never left. It whispered, **Never forget.**

"Those sons of bitches," he hissed aloud as he thought of the Ghouls and their leader Marik's gloating voice. It had been a while since someone had managed to get so under his skin. "Listen, kid, if it's any consolation to you, if you stick with me I can promise you'll have your vengeance."

Blinking in surprise as if unsure how to react, the teen was silent for a bit before replying, "Thanks, um… huh. I've just realized, I haven't even learned your name yet." He gave an apologetic look, blond bangs brushing just above his large eyes.

So the kid had never heard of the Thief King? He must have been kept in the dark ever since he was captured—how else could he have not caught some form of gossip concerning the man? "It doesn't matter. But you can call me the King of Thieves, or just King if you want," Bakura informed, for once speaking without a hint of irony.

The corners of the teen's mouth lifted at this, perhaps in amusement at his rescuer's ego, though he said nothing. Not seeming to catch this, the King of Thieves went on, "So. What's _your_ name?"

The stranger went on blinking his violet eyes and gave a bright, disarming smile. A cloud passing overhead cast his face in absolute shadow.

"I'm Namu."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's<strong>** Note:** **...and then Bakura and Marik had totally awesome buttsex.**

**...What? Isn't that the main reason you're reading this? To get to the smut?**

**Awkward joking aside, thank you for reading this huge-ass of a first chapter. I never intended it to be this freaking long, but... eh. It happened.**

**Hehe. I like the idea of a younger, less-experienced Thief King Bakura, to be honest.**

**Anyways, I hope this was enjoyable for you, and if you could take the time to let me know what you think, then it would be much appreciated. Almost as much as I appreciate _you_. For _existing_.**

**...Also, the other day I saw a restaurant called Malik's Kabob. As a YGOTAS fan, this made me incredibly happy.**

**Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas/ Happy Politically Correct Holidays!**


	2. The Scarabs Are Hidden

_Dust swirled in the air, tousling the spikes of shining hair that framed Bakura's face. Barefoot and in a scratchy off-white tunic, he was collapsed and trembling in the middle of one of Kul-Elna's dusky streets. Despite the dipping sun's crimson heat, his shuttered eyes and whispering lips seemed pallid and cold as he drained all of his strength into a pool of concentration._

_Crouched down over him and grasping his shoulder was a teen girl a little over twice his age, her chopped-off hair and electric expression giving her a frayed appearance. In a husky voice, she urged, "Bakura, I told you not to worry about it—you know we don't care—I don't know what's gonna happen if you keep this up!"_

_Shaking her off stubbornly, Bakura propped himself up on his elbows in disregard of his lagging health. In a dry voice, he said, "Diabound…come _on_!"_

_His ka had gotten loose against his wishes again, and was now flying rampant, skimming the tops of the village's mud brick abodes. It had already escaped so far that, in his dizzied vision, it was a mere blurred spot disrupting the sky. With increasing frustration, the boy yanked on the link between him and his spirit as he would a leash, feeling the staggering swipe of his energy dissipating. His arms crumpled beneath him._

"_Bakura, stop! You can't force it!"_

"_But Salama…," he watched as Diabound soared farther and farther away, "Why? Why can't I control it…?" Darkness began to prickle at the edges of his eyes as the alarmed voice of his father and the strong hands that wrapped around his body sent him off to sleep._

_When he next opened his eyes, he was laying in his bed at home, his father sitting wearily by his feet._

"…_So. How long was I out?"_

_Mshai regarded his son sternly, shaking a graying head at his casual nature. "You are a reckless, reckless child. What were you thinking, endangering your own safety like that?"_

_Sitting upright, Bakura insisted, "Dad, I would've been fine. I lost consciousness because I was _tired_, not because I was going to _die_."_

"_I don't care. We've gone over this before; Diabound is a defense mechanism, not a weapon, and it's harmless by itself. It _will_ be dangerous if you keep trying to keep it trapped under your skin—what's wrong with letting it fly free?"_

_Glowering down at his resting knuckles, the boy muttered, "I just wanted to be strong enough…"_

"_And look at how weak you've made yourself in the process."_

_At that, Bakura exhaled hotly through his nose and hopped off the bed, both so he could make a show of how _not_ weak he was feeling, and so he could walk up to his window to check the skies._

_Night had poured in while he slept, and so had the rowdier villagers who now occupied the streets. He recognized all of their names and faces, of course, and had he been in a better mood he would have greeted them like he would extended family._

"_Dad…why do we have to keep Kul-Elna a secret?" Bakura questioned in a change of subject, placing his forearms on the windowsill while his pupils kept searching the distance. His ka was nowhere in sight. "Wouldn't everyone be much happier if they could leave the village whenever they wanted to?"_

_Over the years, Kul-Elna had been scraping by; it mainly sustained itself through thievery of other surrounding settlements, and thus as a general rule only thieves were allowed to see the world outside the village borders—and even then, they had to take the utmost care to make sure that they weren't followed on their way back. But Bakura imagined if people felt free to come and go as they pleased, visiting friends and family, trading and buying—everyone's lives would be so much better._

_From behind him, his father spoke gravely. "These people have little reason to leave, Bakura. They've been chased into this humble home by unshakable demons—it is here that they have a future, not outside where the world remembers their sins. And that's exactly why we must continue living in this manner, hidden away; Kul-Elna gives second chances to everyone, undiscriminatingly…but whether or not everyone here _deserves_ a second chance is something the rest of the world wouldn't agree with. If we are discovered, then we won't be allowed to continue existing as happy and free as we are. In the ways of justice, it wouldn't be considered fair."_

"_Well, _I _don't think it's fair that most of these people were probably poor or alone, and _had_ to do the things that they did to survive—and then have to run away from it! If things had been different—"_

"_It does no good to think of what could have been," Mshai interjected, no doubt speaking from experience. "Bakura, lately you've always seemed dissatisfied about something, and it worries me. You must learn to accept what is and what is not—what matters is that you and I are alive, and together." Bakura felt his father's hand on his shoulder, and after a sigh he tilted his head back to look up at him. The man's unsure eyes misted down at him as he added softly, "You know that, don't you?"_

"_Dad…" Expression cracking, the boy gripped his father's fingers, unaware of how much smaller his hand was in comparison. Turning around, he latched himself around his father's waist like a bandage around a cut, burying his cheek adamantly into the folds of the man's tunic. "I keep telling you, I don't care that mom's not here. You're all I need, dummy."_

_Mshai closed his eyes and rested his hands in his son's brilliant hair. "…You really must learn to be more respectful," he commented tiredly, though in a lighter tone._

"_Dork," Bakura replied in cheeky defiance as he grinned upwards, and detached himself from his father in time to dodge a sweep of his arm. Smiling reproachfully, Mshai advanced upon the snickering boy as he continued, "Dweeb. Doofus. Dunce. Dipshi—ack!"_

_The gentle man had grasped his son not-so-gently by the ankles, lifting him clear off the floor and causing Bakura to release a shriek of laughter._

"_No bad language in the house, remember?" Mshai admonished mildly, dangling him back and forth like a pendulum, to the boy's delight._

"_Mmf! Leggo of me!" Bakura grunted as his giggles subsided, flailing his arms in half-hearted struggle. To his disappointment his father actually complied, half-draping, half-tossing his son onto the bed. "Hey, wait—is that it?" He sat up expectantly, dismayed to see his father turning to leave._

"_It's getting a little late, Bakura, and I'd really prefer for you to recover as soon as possible. We can always play more tomorrow," Mshai answered with a yawn that Bakura suspected was fake._

"_It is _not_ late! And I'm not tired!" he protested, but the man simply waved him off with patience and affection as he exited the room, taking the only oil lamp with him. That was the thing with his father; he never argued, but he always got his way._

_Now in the dark, Bakura flopped back with a huff. How could he sleep when he felt so restless? Somewhere out there, he felt the rush of his ka's wing beats against his brain. And what's worse, his senses were now opened to every scratching stimuli like raw, skinned flesh._

_He didn't quite understand it yet, but whenever he felt attuned with Diabound, he grew more…animalistic. His stamina lengthened, his eyes remained sharpened in darkness, he thought more in pictures and impulse than in words, his nose could read the different textures of scents as readily as one could read an expression, and his ears—right now, his ears buzzed constantly._

_Closing his eyes, Bakura tried to shake off his besieged senses, so that he might rest his mind and fall asleep._

"…—_**ura…"**_

_Feeling a draft enter through his window, he shivered, the dry sandy air abruptly seeming chilled and abrasive as it curled around him._

_As much as he _wanted_ to rest his mind, he just couldn't—not when he had so much to think about. Like the reason he and his father had had to come live in Kul-Elna in the first place._

…_Why was he so different, anyways?_

_There had to be others out there that were like him, and maybe they had the answers to all of his questions. But right now, he hated not knowing how dangerous he was, or how powerful, or why people like his mother seemed to want people like himself to die._

"_**Bakura…"**_

_He rolled over onto his side, brow clenching as he tried to ignore the sounds and voices that jumbled in his ears. Even the rhythmic thrumming of his own blood as it washed through him filled his senses, like the whoosh and beating of wings on his eardrum._

_With a floating sensation, Bakura saw a pale speck in the inky blackness of his mind, and rushed up to meet it. Diabound flapped its broad, fanned wings through the air as if with purpose, though it had no clear destination; whenever it seemed to get close to crossing over the boundaries of Kul-Elna, it dipped to the side and allowed its flight to curve back, watching over the villagers with mystifying, impassive eyes. Unlike the tanned, vibrant, turbulent little boy that possessed it, the ka's expression never changed, its pure white bird's body swishing skyward with grace._

_Soaring right alongside his spirit, Bakura marveled at the view. All of Kul-Elna—all of his home, and of everything he ever knew—could be seen in one glance…and how much smaller it seemed for it! The shadowy parts of the world beyond stretched endlessly all around, and there was no doubt in the boy's mind that all of the answers he sought were hidden somewhere in their depths._

"_**Why…not…run…away?"**_

_He was tempted._

_In the clinging darkness, Bakura almost swore that he felt something grip his ankle—a clawed hand, talons maybe—and it dragged him down from his flight, plummeting faster and faster until he hit his floor and awoke, having fallen off the bed during his vivid vision. His heart had tripped and crashed into his lungs, his breathing stopped, his leg jerked away from the memory of the icy touch, and his eyes snapped to his ankle to see that, of course, there was nothing there._

_As the adrenaline-rushed blood raced to his head, he took a steadying breath and rolled his eyes at himself. He actually let himself get spooked over some dream!_

_But as he righted himself and once more approached the window to see his ka finally float into view, he rubbed at his forehead and wondered if what he had seen could have been real_—_if his experience had to do with the connection between Diabound and himself. What, what if, maybe—he was driving himself crazy with all of the things he didn't know._

_It couldn't really hurt to get out of Kul-Elna just for a little bit, could it? He could just get a good look around—and if he was lucky, meet an outsider and ask some questions—and come right back. Really, no one would know he'd been missing, he convinced himself._

_Impulsively, he grabbed nothing but a flask of beer, the enticement of exploration drawing him towards his window. He gripped the edge and leaned outward, rocking back and forth slightly on his legs in deliberation._

_It couldn't hurt._

_At the crescendo of Diabound's wing beats, he poked his head out of the window completely and looked up to see its descending figure, delighted that it had returned to him at last. Maybe it was a sign! Maybe he was finally growing stronger_—_strong enough to do this on his own._

_Closing his eyes, he allowed the charged currents of his ka to flow into him as his body accepted the solemn-faced creature. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder and a lingering thought about his father, he clambered through the window and fell into a crouch outside with a crunch of dirt._

"_**Ha ha ha ha…"**_

_And he was gone into the night._

* * *

><p>The setting sun stained the lands with a seeping, bleeding red, as everyone's stretched shadows danced in a flurry of contortions on the uneven ground.<p>

The Thief King stifled a yawn, unusually drained from having to stay up through the afternoon and also from riding on horseback for such a long duration; at the slow, dragging pace the animals went, it took twice the time to travel than it would have had they been at their full strength. By this point, the weapons he carried on his person made his shoulders ache, myriad leather straps circled tautly about his otherwise unclothed torso, and the fatigue was starting to trickle down the rest of his body.

As it was, he was as irascible as ever, mulling over how abysmally the day had gone despite his inability to do anything about it—though, really, that was probably the worst part. Plus, the incessant up-down jerking motion of his horse's labored strides wasn't any help, he reflected as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Though he led the entire procession, he soon found his mind wandering and he glanced back to check on how Namu was coping.

The kid rode with impressive stamina and dexterity, especially considering the ordeal he must have gone through. There wasn't anything really conspicuous about his posture, but all of his motions were severe and controlling, keeping his borrowed steed in line.

More noticeably, his eyes were alert and fidgety—flicking to the fading light on the horizon, to the right where Odji was fussing over the sand clumping in his horse's mane, a little further back to where Wati was staring disinterestedly at the passing landscape, straight ahead to see the Thief King looking back at him. He tilted his head to the side with an unsure smile, an ineffable gleam in his eyes that was almost entrancing.

"Are we almost there?" he called out, breaking the silence; for the majority of the trip, the Thief King's brooding presence had kept everyone subdued.

"You're not already tired, are you?" the silver-haired teen replied, plastering a smirk to his face despite the fact that his own body felt leaden from his lack of sleep. "You had better get used to the feeling, because as soon as you're shown the ropes I'll be working you like a dog." With that, he faced forward once more, turning his back to everyone.

To Namu's left, Nebi lowered his head and whispered helpfully, "That's just his way of saying 'Welcome to the club.'"

Blinking a little, Namu nodded thoughtfully. "He seems…hospitable?"

Nebi chuckled in his low, placid voice, leaning closer to the newcomer as if in conspiracy. "Don't worry, once you gain his trust he'll treat you just fine…usually." The way he said it, it was likely something he had to go through himself. "The King has the worst temper, but he's not a bad guy if you stay on his good side."

A sincere look of curiosity came over the blonde as he pondered aloud, "He really has you call him 'King,' then? What's his real name?"

"That," Wati raised his voice across the distance between him and the others, clearly having been eavesdropping, "no one knows." He regarded Namu almost haughtily, as if the teen's inexperience made him superior. Namu just smiled back sweetly.

"Oh? And how come?"

With a shrug, Wati stared pointedly at the Thief King's back as he drawled loud enough for him to hear, "I say it's just his superiority complex in action."

The Thief King didn't even bother to turn around. "I'm flattered that you talk about me so often Wati," he said with both impatience and amusement, "but shut up. Your whining is giving me a headache."

As the procession kept going, the muffling desert sands that pillowed their horses' hooves gradually gave way to firmer ground, and what were once vague outlines of mountains in the distance slowly came up to meet them. Night had finally spilled across the land without restraint, shadowing the ridges that began to form a wall to their left, erratic crags shrugged towards the sky.

The faint luminescence left in the surroundings reflected off of Bakura's eyes in a cat-like manner, and he acutely scanned the way ahead with a frown. As they neared where the camp was, he wondered just how destructive Marik's raid had been, his ears straining to pick up some sound of life and only being met by the forlorn crunching of hooves on hard-packed earth.

The whole procession halted, and Namu appeared puzzled as he cast about his gaze every which way; they seemed to have arrived at their destination, but there was no encampment that he could see, not even a hair to indicate that people had dwelled here. The others were clearly preoccupied over different matters.

"King…you don't think they're…," Nebi murmured apprehensively from behind him, but the Thief King shook his head.

"The bastards wouldn't have the nerve to die on us," he seemed to reassure himself, knuckles clenching where he gripped his reins.

Where Namu sat, he could see that everyone was nervous as even Wati concernedly called out into the night, sending wary glances side to side. "Alim? Menetnashté? Anyone? It's us, so you can come out now."

A beat passed, and Wati opened his mouth to call out once more when another's voice responded.

"Prove it."

The entire party seemed to exhale at once, visibly relaxing.

With slight surprise in his violet-splashed eyes, Namu regarded the twinge of relief in the Thief King's face. Taking no notice, and severely annoyed that he had been made to worry, Bakura growled, "If you don't come out right now, I'm going to shove my foot up your cowardly asses."

"…Okay, it really is you."

Scuffling noises emanated from an area in the ground, a few feet to the side of where Bakura's horse stood, and as much as Namu squinted at the source of the noise he couldn't tell where it was coming from in the darkness.

Soon a head emerged from the obscured area, followed by cramped shoulders and scrabbling hands as a man seemed to rise straight out of the ground, shaking debris vigorously from his shaggy black hair. Namu observed with keen interest all the while.

One by one, a large handful of other thieves appeared with a similar amount of grace, all sporting a dumbfounded expression to see their horses retrieved, the beasts pawing at the ground while the Thief King glared down at their masters witheringly. He crossed his arms, though out of impatience more than out of menace.

The first one to emerge raised his lanky arms as if to placate his leader. "King! You've, uh, found our horses! That's great!"

"Cut the crap, Shushu. Don't pretend like we didn't just save them from being stolen, you careless jackasses."

Shushu glanced back at the other thieves who merely shrugged, before addressing the Thief King again. "Our horses were stolen?"

Bakura slapped a palm to his forehead. "How could you dolts not even _know_ that—I don't—okay, let's start over from the beginning. When I had left you all, I had entrusted the horses to your _constant watch and supervision_, which we had established as your duty _numerous times in the past_ for whenever I was gone. Now, was this duty actually carried out?" He spoke with deliberate, condescending slowness, and like a berated child Shushu lowered his head sheepishly.

"Er…uh, we were going on another raid since we were running low on supplies, and since we all really wanted to help out with the looting—" he grimaced as someone stomped on his foot, hissing at him to tell the truth, "—that is, no one really felt like staying behind with the horses we weren't using, so we just brought all of 'em with us to the nearest town…"

"And no one was left guarding them?"

"W-we had spread word that we were with the King of Thieves, and of course everyone'd took off running, and they were too scared to even think of messing with us—it was a real ghost town after that, really! We were so sure that all the people had run away, so it shouldn'tve been a problem if we left the horses on their own, just for a short while. If they were taken, they were taken right under our noses."

Bakura gave a lengthy exhale which ruffled his bangs, eyes listing to the side. It was no damn wonder that the Ghouls had gotten a hold of their stallions, being practically announced as belonging to the Thief King and then left in the open like that. Just his luck that they happened to be in the right place at the right time to take advantage of his men's thoughtlessness—or maybe their reach was far more widespread than he could have imagined. When it came right down to it, he knew almost nothing about these new adversaries, outside of how much they pissed him off.

"We returned to see the horses'd all wandered off_—_well, that's what we had thought at the time anyways_—_and we would've told you if you'dve given us some means of contact. But we were confident that they'd come back to us on their own—a-and it's amazing how you trained 'em to be so smart and loyal, you know, we haven't lost a single horse yet," Shushu concluded with an attempt at flattery, in the hopes of lessening the severity of the Thief King's wrath.

"…I should have you all beaten to a pulp for your imbecility," came his unmoved reply, prompting a flinch from the few who took his threat completely seriously. But underneath, his thoughts were unsettled, like a stack of tiles after one piece wriggles loose—if what Shushu said was true, then the horses were clearly stolen while they were away from the Thieves' Den—so the Ghouls couldn't possibly have found where they had been staying, as Bakura had previously thought. For the sake of being sure, he interrogated curtly, "So you didn't run into Marik at all?"

"I'm pretty sure we didn't, whoever that is. We hijacked a boat down the river on our way back, and aside from the saps that we chucked overboard we didn't meet or see anyone at all."

Perhaps he should've just been thankful that the fools hadn't run into the Ghouls without him there, though he had been hoping that someone might have gotten a better glimpse of Marik than he had. He at least wanted to have some idea of what his opponent looked like.

"Are you sure you weren't followed here?"

Doubtless, Shushu's posture straightened, and he assured, "Of course we weren't. Whattaya take us for?"

"Arrogant, undisciplined, thoughtless bastards," Bakura rattled off breezily, much to the indignation of some. Despite this, he really did believe him; if there was one thing that his men took care not to do, it was jeopardizing the safety of their companions.

So Marik really had no idea where their base of operations was? Then maybe they didn't have to relocate as soon as he'd thought. Something uncoiled in the Thief King's diaphragm and he leaned back with greater ease, all while Namu's eyes traced the mountains and terrain around them, their layout captured lastingly in his pupils like ink being sucked into papyrus.

"I suppose things could have turned out a lot worse," Bakura sighed, rubbing a palm by his temple, "but damn you all for what you did. Had it ever occurred to you that you might want to withhold our identities every now and then when you rob someone?"

One of the more elderly of the men, sporting a beard as twisted as a chain of roots, stepped forward. He stood taller than the other belittled brigands as he said, "As much as this incident was a product of our carelessness, I don't doubt that it would have been avoided had you been with us. We've been without a leader for a long time—is it any wonder that we've fallen into disorder?"

Bakura scanned the line of men behind Alim, catching on each of their astray gazes like a hand running over a chipped edge. His arrogance deflated, replaced by something cornered and defensive. "I'm sorry…but I'm not going to waste my time babysitting you guys. I have my own things I need to do."

Hidden thoughts flickered beneath his exterior, while beneath the moonlight his skin looked sculpted and smooth, for a moment giving him an inhuman appearance—he looked like a hollow shell, a polished statue with insides that echoed. He gave a lengthy exhale.

"I'm leaving now," he said, slipping off his stallion's back and landing lightly with knees bent. "And before any of you ask, I won't be long this time."

Some of the men appeared as if they wanted to protest, though in this case they managed to withhold themselves. Raising an eyebrow at the estranged stares they pointed at him, he grasped clumsily for a grin and threw it on, saying, "Would you boys _relax_? It's not like I'm abandoning you." Even as he spoke, he turned away from them.

With a collective grunt, everyone winced against the blinding flash that his body released as his ka emerged. It rocketed into the sky with pummeling wings, taking its vessel along with it—Bakura's body had vanished from the sands.

Blinking away the vestiges of light that clung to his vision, Nebi saw a rather silent Namu, watching Diabound's form flying towards the stars, shrinking from sight until it looked no different from the many pale specks in the sky.

"How often does he leave like this?"

Grasping his own shoulder to wind the arm back in a stretch, Nebi said, "Unfortunately, his disappearances are becoming more and more frequent, and usually he doesn't even inform us of them beforehand. But then from the very start, the King has always come and gone as he pleased."

As they dismounted their horses, taking the time to massage their stiff muscles, Namu frowned and turned away from the sky.

"But where does he go?"

Intruding on their conversation as before, Wati grumbled, "Like he'd ever tell us."

Namu glanced at the other thieves and saw that they looked almost a little lost. It was bizarre, to say the least, to see full-grown and barbarous men act with such reliance.

To prevent the conversation from losing momentum, he made a show of yawning and asked, "So, where do you all sleep? Not on the ground, surely."

Taking almost gratefully to the diversion of showing the newcomer around, Nebi smiled and shook his head. "Well, no. Not _on _the ground…but _under_ground."

"…Oh." Namu returned the smile with an expression of interest, but his voice seemed to fall flat a little, as if in distaste.

Not taking notice, Nebi gave curt orders to the rest of the thieves—Namu carefully noted that he seemed to take charge in the Thief King's absence—to tie down the horses and assign the first watch, and afterwards beckoned for Namu to follow him.

He led the teen to the area that Shushu and the others had emerged from, to show him what merely appeared to be an animal burrow. It was this opening that, legs-first, he began wriggling into.

"You…you all live in a hole," Namu observed aloud, watching as the man's heavy-set shoulders and dark mop of a head squeezed past the dirt and plunged into blackness.

"And now, so do you," his voice replied amiably. "Welcome to the Thieves' Den."

Those that had tended the horses were now returning, brushing off their hands, and pushing past Namu with little mind descended into the hole in a similarly casual fashion.

Slightly more out of breath than the younger men, the aged man called Alim took his time clambering into the opening. Pausing with his arms supporting his weight as his midsection was dipped under, he regarded the stilled, indecipherable-faced Namu.

"…It's not too cramped in there, is it?" the teen asked as he stared unblinkingly into the darkness of the opening, as if it were the gaping maw of a crocodile.

"Claustrophobic, are we?" remarked Alim with a twist of the mouth, not waiting for the boy to answer as he assured, "It gets bigger as you go down."

The docile smile flushed back immediately to Namu's lips. "Oh, I don't mind. I was just curious."

Once Alim, too, disappeared beneath the ground, for a moment Namu was left alone on the surface. In this quick privacy, his hand habitually wandered up to the amulet that hung around his neck. The brownish worn thing was rather plain and had little worth, but his fingers wrapped around it with the urgency of a child's embrace.

Steadied, he was able to plunge himself into the hole calmly, ignoring the scratched sides of earth that pressed in on him.

Getting past the initial cramped space, he found that immediately afterwards the sides parted, followed by a vertical drop of only about a foot before solid ground met his feet once more.

Groping blindly in the pitch-blackness, it felt like he was in a narrow tunnel—and taking a few tentative steps forward, it could also be deduced that it led further down.

Walking now with less and less hesitance, Namu did not have to go too far before the welcome glow of orange light gradually returned to his eyes, accompanied by the reverberating booms of men's voices. The descending entryway soon leveled out and opened into a stunning hollow; the ceiling surged upwards, leaving a large excess of vertical space, and the breadth was enough to accommodate the bodies of over a hundred men. As it were, the few dozen thieves were sprawled about the floor space comfortably, along with an impressively large population of beer jugs, shadowed beneath periodic bulks of crude stone columns that were clearly the only things preventing a complete cave-in.

There were various heaps of objects thrown about, which were hardly organized at all. Food rations, weapons, clothes, and gilded plunders intermingled on the floor, overflowing their boundaries like liquid.

A variety of oil lamps, mismatched in design and quality—and no doubt all stolen—were strategically placed along the walls to effuse the cavern with a lively tint, though they were all curiously isolated, encased by a border of rocks with caution as if they posed a fire hazard.

Currently, most of the thieves were clustered in multiple closed groups, distributing beer and chatting sociably.

"Well, look who finally made it!" exclaimed one man upon noticing Namu's entry, attracting the attentions of the rest of the congregation.

Another thief, already quite inebriated, roared jocularly, "You were taking so long in there, we were afraid you got lost!"

Paying little mind to the others as they guffawed loudly, Namu took in his surroundings with lingering eyes.

"This…is this man-made?"

"Pretty damned sweet, right? While some've heard rumors about the Thieves's Den, they probably didn't figure that that was, word-for-word, where we lived. No one has ever found us down here," boasted the one named Shushu. Just like the rest of the band of rogues, it seemed that after a brief alcohol break he was in better spirits. "All tunneled by the King of Thieves, if you can believe it."

"Well, more like his ka," Wati interjected correctively, "That monster of a thing must do the work of at least ten men."

Namu's eyebrows rose, though he otherwise gave no other signs as to how impressed he was.

Shushu laughed at his reaction. "Yeah, I know. The King's fucking crazy. What's even crazier is that every few months, he makes us move out so he can demolish the place, move somewhere else, and wait around while he digs out a new place to live. The kid burrows like a freaking fox."

Slightly more sober—both literally and figuratively—than the others, Nebi ruminated aloud, "He goes to all that trouble, just so that he can keep all of us on the move. Sometimes I wonder if it's not just our enemies that he's running from…"

Not one to let his spirits be dampened, Alim joined in the conversation amiably, "Hey, everyone's got their own problems, and their own ways of dealing with them. I think almost everyone here's a hopeless drunkard, for one thing."

Illustrating his point, he grabbed a goblet from amongst the scattered goods, and let another man fill it to the brim.

Namu was offered some wine, but with a kind shake of his head he turned down the offer. He was interested to see that while his reaction earned some questioning glances, no one actually voiced their perplexity aloud. In fact, he hadn't been asked to reveal a thing about himself to the others—they seemed to greatly value each others' privacy, which was all the more advantageous for him. Really, the Thief King's men operated so much differently from the Ghouls as a whole, and in such an impractical way, too.

Although the men all liked to act with bawdy irreverence, they may as well have been wrapped around the Thief King like a jeweled collar on his neck; for whatever reason, their dependence upon him was a strong one, with old and far-reaching roots.

Cut away their leader, and they wouldn't be able to recover. Threaten their leader, and they wouldn't be able to act...

Namu smiled, starting to genuinely enjoy the drunken festivities around him.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Bakura stumbled into the underground hideaway with the blood drained from his face, his heart worn out from how hard it had been throwing itself against his ribs. Legs emptied of their usual strength, he found it necessary to unstrap the heavy weapons that bolstered his appearance, tossing them to the ground and regretting how bared and diminished he felt as a result. He was given a lively greeting as his men leapt to their feet.<p>

"King, you're back!"

"You missed the best drinking contest—I can't even remember who won!"

"Are you okay? You look terrible."

Ignoring them, he swiped the bangs from his clammy forehead and panted gruffly, "I need a drink."

By now, his men knew better than to interrogate him as to what happened, and simply complied with his demands. Hand clenching around the flask that was pressed into his shaking palm, he drank deeply.

When he surfaced from his drink with a small gasp, he saw that from afar, Namu had affixed him with a sharpened, searching gaze, which quickly dissipated in lieu of a smile as the boy looked demurely away.

"King," came Nebi's low voice as the man sidled up next to him, "what you do on your outings is none of my business, but I can't say any of us like the effect it's having on you."

"It's fine. I can handle it," was all that came out of him on the matter. Almost aversively, he raised his voice to address the entire congregation. "Attention, everyone! While I was out, I got wind of some vital news: the pharaoh has fallen ill for a while now, and his condition has deteriorated so much that he is completely bedridden. His weakened state gives us the perfect opening for an attack—the time to strike has finally arrived!"

The more he spoke, the more his voice solidified until he sounded like his old self, and he beat a bloodthirsty fist into the air. His men burst into mug-sloshing, drink-guzzling cheers, their spirits enlivened at the thought of completing this final objective; maybe once this was over, their leader's attentions would recede from this strange shadowy mission and they could return to the simpler ways of the past, where all that was important was their survival together.

"Our window of time is small, however, and I'm not taking any chances of him dying or recovering before we launch our attack. So for once, you all had better retire before the sun rises and get decent rest, because I expect everyone awake by this afternoon—we'll want to leave by then to ensure we arrive at Thebes after nightfall, when we have the darkness to our advantage."

As he concluded, his men energetically voiced their assent, with a serious edge that had not been there before. They were focused and collected under his instruction—they were well aware of how important this was to him.

But was he ready for this, himself? His lungs were twisting into knots at the thought of reaching the end of his life—and it surely would be the end of his life, whether he succeeded in defeating the pharaoh or not, because he had been determined to die ever since he was a child…

"I said, _give it back now._" Namu's voice penetrated the warmed air, as subtle yet hard as a raindrop pelted at the face, and with blinking awareness heads turned to see him closing a forceful hand around Alim's wrist.

The weathered man held up a hapless hand. "Calm down, boy! I was just picking it off the ground before someone stepped on it—I wasn't going to steal it. Look," his captive hand uncurled about Namu's strange-shaped pendant so that the teen could get a better glimpse of it, "its twine is frayed, not cut. It must have just snapped and fallen on its own after being worn so much."

Namu leaned in, examining the state of the trinket to see that what the man had said was true, and his terse expression flattened. "I don't want you touching it," was all he had to say as he snatched it from Alim's palm. As his own voice echoed in his ears, he caught himself with gripped awareness. He glanced up and was faced with the bemused silence of the rest of the thieves, his heel barely sliding back in a self-interrupted retreat as he was stuck beneath their collective gaze. Head ducking down as if he were dodging a flaming arrow, he muttered with a bow, "Please excuse me—I think I need some space right now," and without further explanation he left their midst. He withdrew to the farthest corner of the den in solitude, slipping behind one heavyset pillar and disappearing from view.

Predatory eyes tracking the boy's path over his sipped drink, Bakura watched him leave with mild intrigue and a stirred appetite.

"Well, that was…awkward?" Wati ventured with his critical frown, and rubbing his wrist Alim shook his head with a sigh.

"Leave it be. If he has a problem that he doesn't wish to talk about, then that would make him no different from the rest of us."

Hesitatingly, with varying levels of unconcern, the thieves turned to each other once more and picked up their old conversations, and the casks of liquor resumed their hand-to-hand circulation.

Bakura, too, was handed a hefty pot of wine, but for once he couldn't bring himself to join in everyone's lukewarm revelry. Instead he leaned against a wall, staring into his reflected face in the dark liquid. He hated how young he still looked—he _had_ grown stronger, hadn't he?

Nerves snapped in his insides at the thought of tomorrow. Top lip dipping into the wine, he made sure to drink his fill.

He stood a while in this brooding manner, counting the seconds it took for the fluid to trickle down into his stomach. Then, looking down at his feet, he began to see the earth waver beneath them with something close to contentment, and before his slowed mind knew it they had started to move of their own accord. Beer flask in hand, the King of Thieves tread forward with the impression that he was moving as if through water, pulsing with the urge to steal something as he rounded a certain pillar.

A flash of gold—Namu's hair was the first thing that Bakura ever saw, calculating eyes naturally drawn to the color out of habit, as if he could evaluate the boy's worth. The thief's pupils then skimmed over the rest of him; sitting cross-legged on the ground, a sturdier length of twine held towards the quick-pulsed light of an oil lamp, fingers knotting the string through the pendant's hole vigorously.

"What do you want?" Namu asked, tone of voice so subdued it was difficult to discern if he were being rude or genuinely concerned.

Want—Bakura fucking wanted everything. Light touches of frustration brushed languidly against his body fibers as if the alcohol had sensitized him to the feeling that always gnawed at his insides, an undying desire for whatever he could get his fingers on and more. Really, Bakura always felt wanting of something, though he usually had to settle for the hoarding of gold as the only means of channeling his thirst for acquisition in and of itself; he didn't need the things he wanted, but he needed to want them. Perhaps it was foolish to think that hiding in greed could save him—surely as foolish as slopping handfuls of water into a jug with a cracked hole in it, in an attempt to fill it—but he had to bolster his weight with gold, and he had to disappear in heaps of coins and jewels, or else the emptiness might seize him.

Pausing, Bakura took another swig of beer, tilting his head back so that the curative liquid streamed unhindered down his throat.

Bakura leaned a shoulder on the stone column with crossed arms, ironic smirk only just softened by the copious amounts of liquor. "If you could spare a moment of your time…"

Namu hesitated a beat, and despite all of the consideration that his face seemed to show, it didn't seem like he wanted Bakura there at all.

"Of course, Thief."

"It's '_King._'"

"As you say, Thief."

The Thief King rolled his eyes, but decided to leave it for now. Stepping forward, he approached the other teen in a curve, giving a wide berth between the burning oil lamp and his body.

"You look like you could use some of this." He extended his beer flask towards Namu, who didn't look up.

"I don't drink alcohol."

Bakura honestly didn't think that such sobriety was possible—at least, it was the first time he'd ever heard of such a thing. "Then what do you drink?"

"Water." A twitch of the lips, a lowering of the eyelids—the only things to hint at mockery.

The thief made a face, brow raised incredulously. "Only from the Nile? And you haven't caught anything yet?"

"I don't get sick, either," was Namu's matter-of-fact reply, as he kept his eyes dutifully trained on his handiwork.

Resisting the urge to squint, Bakura scanned his face for some sign of outright humor or insincerity, and found none. "Well, aren't you perfect." He finished off the beer and discarded the emptied vessel carelessly.

The amulet now secure on its string, Namu lifted the ends of the twine behind his neck and began tying them together.

"So are you gonna tell me what the deal is with that tacky little necklace of yours?" Bakura asked casually enough and plopped himself down next to him. "You sure freaked out back there, you know."

He propped an elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand as if he were interested. His steely eyes ran a full circuit, falling to the amulet appraisingly to affirm that its worth was dismissible, then sweeping brazenly across Namu's attractively-built frame with much greater intrigue.

Not taking notice, the blonde gazed, engrossed, into the tiny flame spouting from the tip of the oil lamp and took a breath. He gave a light tug on the pendant, and seeing that it steadfastly held onto his neck, let his hands fall into his lap.

"I just like it. That's all."

Finally glancing up, Namu saw that Bakura's eyebrows had fallen in a deadpan expression.

After a pause, he gave in and broke eye contact. "Okay, okay. I had it since I was a kid…" He seemed to almost stop there, before deciding that there'd be no way the other teen would be content with that explanation, and reluctantly added, "It was a gift."

Bakura flashed a serrated grin. "Oi, you're not getting off that easy. Where'd you get it from?"

Briefly, something flickered through Namu, as if for a second the entirety of his being—face, eyes, muscles, voice—grew harder, colder.

"My brother."

"Alright," the Thief King said without a hitch in his laidback demeanor. He nodded his head in indication of the amulet. "And what is it, exactly?"

"A figurine of the goddess Selket," Namu responded, returning to his sweetly mild voice, "to give protection from poisonous stings or snake bites."

With a snort, Bakura remarked, "Huh! How cute—so I take it you actually believe a god's blessing lies within that little trinket."

Namu knitted his brows together. "Yes? And I take it that you do not?"

Mouth still quirked up, the King of Thieves gazed levelly with eyes untempered and flashing dangerously, like arcing twin blades. "There is no reason for me to believe in any sort of god."

"…I see." They fell into a bout of silence, Namu's hand floating up to grasp the amulet and running his thumb against it, as he appeared to mull something over.

The Thief King fidgeted slightly, swiftly falling into boredom. Yes, the other teen was severely good-looking, but he sure did space out a lot, like he needed to think about everything before he acted. It was getting on the thief's nerves—not to mention that he seemed as bland as water.

Interrupting the quiet, Namu tilted his head to the side and inquired abruptly, "That beast that you summoned earlier…was that a ka?"

Frowning at the question, Bakura shrugged and replied, "Yeah, it's mine. It's called Diabound."

"Yours—so then it's your soul. How can you summon it without a Millennium Item? I thought the ability to control spirits was only in the grasp of the Pharaoh's priests…," Namu mused aloud, breaking off when Bakura gave a sharp bark of laughter.

"Believe it or not, kid," he said with an acerbic grin, "before the accursed creation of those golden pieces of shit, discernible kas were a naturally-occurring phenomenon. Where do you think all of the kas the Priests use came from in the first place? They were ripped from the bodies of other humans."

Namu raised his eyebrows at this information, but rather than reacting with surprise, he questioned further, almost as if in a rush, "And how common are these naturally-occurring kas?"

Expression darkening, the King of Thieves muttered, "I don't know. I've never really met another host of a ka with a physical presence, but my guess is that most of them are probably in hiding, dead, or have already been captured and been subjected to the Millennium Items—in which case, they are most likely dead, as well." He almost reached towards his waist as if to grasp the flask that was no longer at his side, and to drink the liquor that was no longer there. Fuck, he wanted more beer.

"So…you all are being hunted."

"Hmph. You make it sound like we're just a bunch of animals," Bakura remarked a little bitterly, "So yes, that'd probably be an accurate way of putting it."

Namu creased his brow in an apologetic way. "I am very sorry to hear that."

"Whatever. Give your sympathy to someone who needs it." The thief resisted the urge to squirm. Through the filmy haze of beer that covered his senses, he began noticing that his hair had been standing on end, as if his body had been bothered by something long before his mind could catch up—but what was it?

The blonde tapped a finger thoughtfully to his cheek. "So if I were to, say, use a Millennium Item on myself, would I be able to release my own ka without dying? Though I suppose it wouldn't be as strong as yours, anyways. It's a curious thing...I wonder," he leaned forward, "how did your ka become so powerful in the first place?"

At once the darkness lurking in Bakura's mind burst forth. **Bakura**, it interjected warningly, nearly making him wince.

Impatient and edged with a fear that he himself was not aware of, he thought back sharply, _Yeah, I hear you. What is it?_

**This mortal asks too many questions, and you are being much too reckless, as always. It is folly for you to allow yourself to be inebriated, especially now**, expressed the voice in distaste, its oppressive presence closing in for a moment like a crushing hand upon Bakura's mind.

On cue, he felt Diabound stirring uneasily within his breast—though he could not tell if it truly was in misgivings towards Namu, or just in recoil from the darkness. _Alright, I got the message. Now piss off._

"Is something the matter, Thief?"

Pulse returning to normal, Bakura vigorously attempted to shake off the heaviness of his beer-dampened thoughts. Maybe Namu was just nosy—goodness knows, the kid was annoying. But there was definitely something off about him…something disingenuous. From the very start, Bakura's keen perception had been detecting bits and pieces of his strange nature, but he wasn't getting a complete picture. Nor could he guess as to how deeply the other hid himself, or his intentions in doing so.

"Thief?"

As he waited for the silver-haired teen to respond, Namu's playfully curious expression transitioned to one of perplexity.

Pupils contracting in an almost cat-like manner, Bakura was brought out of his speculations, an idea in his eyes and a fiendish hunger in his lips.

Acting on impulse and grinning ear-to-ear, he turned and planted his hands to the ground with Namu caged in-between his arms, and leaned forward until the blonde's polished, masked eyes filled his vision. He barely contained his amusement when he saw how guardedly the other boy fell back from his advances, how his jaw just clenched in that otherwise-unaffected expression, how he held his breath so he wouldn't have to share the warmed air of Bakura's exhalations on his face.

"Is something funny?" Namu asked, unable to keep the slight edge from his voice.

"You're so calm—you don't seem to get angry or upset by anything at all. Very good self-control."

"And you find that humorous?"

"Hilarious." Whether he acted at this point because he was being reckless, or being cautious of Namu, or being nervous of the darkness in his head, or just being drunk, it didn't matter to him; he kept pressing forward, repelling Namu further down until the boy's back hit the ground. The intention was to push him to lie down so that Bakura could straddle him evenly on all fours, but because of the stiff and uncooperative movements of the blonde their legs were clashed uncomfortably across each other, their torsos oddly bent in crooked parallels.

With the Thief King quite literally on top of him, Namu shoved his elbow against the other teen's chest to keep him from coming any closer. "Okay, what…what are you doing?" He faltered with the exertion of holding off Bakura's weight.

Rather than giving explanation, the thief said aloud, "You know, your hair has a very nice color." Clearly enjoying himself, he seemed to indulge in watching the sparse sputter of reactions that managed to break through Namu's stolid visage. Bakura lifted a hand to finger at his golden tresses.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" the Thief King simpered. "Then I suppose I should warn you that whenever I see something golden, I end up taking it."

From having to sustain their awkward positioning, both of their arms were beginning to shake. Namu grit his teeth a little.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Fingers drifting downward to graze his chest now, Bakura cheerfully hummed, "Use your imagination."

Namu's pupils warily flicked down to where the other teen's abdomen was hovering an inch from his own, then back up hurriedly. "I…didn't think you'd be attracted to men," was all he could think of to say.

Laughter erupted from the Thief King's mouth, which then lowered to whisper huskily by Namu's ear, "If you catch my drift, I don't like to discriminate over gender."

Indignation creeping into his voice, Namu asked, "And what makes you think you can have me?" He pressed his elbow harder, making sure to jab pointedly into Bakura's ribs. The silver-haired teen remained unfazed.

"I'm the fucking King of Thieves. I can get whatever the hell I want," he murmured arrogantly, wondering how much harassment Namu would tolerate as his teeth closed in on the hinge of his jaw.

Almost immediately, he felt Namu's free hand grip his shoulder, and with one deft motion he was flipped over to the side and dumped roughly on his back. In a reversal of their positions, the blonde was now shoving the thief's back against the dirt, eyes narrowed and a growl in his chest that Bakura would have found enjoyably seductive had the situation been different.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I can be _used_." The last word came out scorchingly like metal pulled out of a forge, and Bakura suspected very candidly. More candidly than Namu would have liked, surely, as he clamped his teeth shut, seemingly with the realization that he had just made a mistake.

"Well, well, well. I didn't think you had this side to you." Satisfied that he'd flushed _something _out of Namu's impenetrable pleasantness_, _the Thief King lifted his eyebrows, though a biting edge glared out from under them to accompany the traces of accusation in his tone. "And I have a warning for you, as well: don't make the mistake of thinking I can be lied to."

Bakura spoke strongly, like a chiseling strike, in the hope that the words would finally manage to pry him open. The other teen just glowered at him evenly; it appeared that his defenses had already recovered. He released the silver-haired thief from his grasp and stood, the elevated position offering him added distance and gravity to his words.

"Are you saying that I've been dishonest?"

"That's what it means to be a liar, isn't it?" Bakura returned curtly, also rising to his feet so that they were the same height. "My instincts can pick up on your true nature well enough. You exude complacency, yet I see your attentive gaze; you act without ambition, yet I catch a scent of raw hunger that wraps around you as tightly as your skin over your body; you pretend to be content, yet I've heard how naturally your voice fills with anger. It's enough to make me think there's something two-faced about you…in which case, you've been dishonest about the nature of your own character, in the very least."

He was starting to back Namu into a corner—now that he'd seen through the blonde's hooded geniality, it would do the other teen no good to revert back to his mask. Indeed, his face had furrowed into a comfortable scowl, having no doubt come to the same conclusion and discarded his mask altogether.

"'Two-faced?' I should think that, when faced with such advances as yours, any normal person would be justified in being upset. Just consider yourself lucky that I didn't react more strongly and cut off your overactive dick, since for all _I_ knew you could've raped me or something."

Under different circumstances, Bakura might have laughed—this side of Namu did seem a lot more fun—but he was through playing games. While the unforthcoming young man wasn't pretending to be nice anymore, the calculations hadn't stopped ticking in his inky pupils; somehow, he still wasn't being truthful. Bakura had to change that. "Say what you want, but it won't change anything. When it comes to respecting peoples' secrets, I don't abide by the same principles that my men do—especially if it might mean jeopardizing our own welfare. Unless you cut out the fake crap, I have no reason to trust you."

Crossing his arms, Namu opened his mouth to retort, but hearing the danger in the other's voice he seemed to backtrack before he overstepped his boundaries even further. He sourly sucked in his pride, muttering, "Listen, I don't want to be kicked out or anything. Just…" Taking a long, collecting breath, he stared down the King of Thieves resolutely and spoke with greater force. "Give me a chance to work with you guys—one chance is all I need to prove myself."

Before the silver-haired boy could voice his response, a memory flashed back to him—there, standing by his father, watching the people of his village walk past—the only place they were afforded another chance—the sadness in his father's eyes, remembering the home he was forced to leave. Reluctant as he was, something inside him quieted.

"…Alright," he relented.

Namu gave him a look of surprise, but he had already started to stalk away before he could change his mind.

"If you mess anything up tomorrow, then I'll make you rue the day you were born," Bakura added loudly for good measure, already irritated with himself for giving in. He was supposed to have grown _beyond_ mercy, damn it.

"I won't. I promise you won't regret this," he heard Namu assert, albeit grudgingly. And yet there was a shade of gratitude in the boy's voice that filled him with a charged, uncertain feeling he wasn't sure he wanted to delve into. Flushing irascibly, he didn't see the poison eyes the young man pressed against his retreating back.

* * *

><p>Priestess Isis stepped quietly through the palace halls, not wanting to disturb those who were still asleep. Her pure white robes swished about her ankles, the garment feeling almost stifling from time to time. The radiance of Ra had yet to light the sky, and a somber, perpetual hush had smothered the surrounding air.<p>

Sighing, she took her hand off of the Millennium Necklace that clung to her collarbone in defeat, before glancing up to see a brown-haired priest standing by the wall, just outside of the threshold of the pharaoh's room.

"Mahad? What are you doing here at this hour?"

Tiredly, he turned and offered a grave smile. He looked in bad shape, tan skin stretched thin and milky, straight and strong posture now looking stiff and brittle. "Isis. If I didn't know you better, I would have asked you the same thing. So I take it that your search was fruitless this night as well?"

She closed her eyes, determination and hopelessness battling in her expression. "Still nothing. It seems that the Necklace simply refuses to show me anything concerning my brother."

"I'm sorry."

"Mm." Lips pursing, she gave him a look of gratitude, visage unusually open. "And what of you, to be out this late?"

Wordlessly, Mahad gestured towards the blackened doorway, and Isis immediately knew.

"Ah, of course—Prince Atem."

For as long as she had known the Priest, he had always stood by the prince's side—and if the prince were to spend sleepless nights at his father's deathbed, then Mahaad would dutifully do the same.

The shadows beneath his violet eyes deepened cavernously, right above the sharp, permanent lines tattooed on his cheekbones—a visual reminder of his undying loyalty. He opened his mouth to speak with what seemed to be agonizing exertion, the pain of having to speak the truth showing in his face as surely as if he were being slowly crushed to death.

"Pharaoh Atem…he is no longer a prince."

Worn mind struggling to grasp what Mahad was saying, Isis's brows pinched together. "But… Did you just call him Pharaoh? But he can't be Pharaoh, not unless his father—" She gasped then and clapped a palm to her mouth, jerking as though struck in the stomach. "Do you mean—?"

Mahad nodded. The silence that followed was almost unbearable for Isis as she was made to imagine the pained silence of the Pharaoh, of how his final, departing breath was made almost alone and mostly unheard.

"Oh gods…" If not for the steadying hand Mahad grasped on her arm, she would have sunk down to her knees. "For…for how long?"

"About two hours," he said softly. "I know I should have notified everyone right away so we could prepare for the funerary ritual, but…well, take a look."

Still in shock, Isis approached the doorway and peered inside. There was the silhouette of the old pharaoh and of his son lying in bed next to him, his father's open eyes unseeing, just like the eyes that stared out of the sarcophagus mask that was waiting for him. Atem's back was to the doorway, and though his eyes were not visible, there was something stirred and tightened in his figure that told Isis that he was awake. She felt her throat tighten.

"I just wanted to give him some time to say goodbye," Mahad murmured next to her. She gazed up at him in sorrow, placing a hand on his shoulder. With alarm she saw how easily he yielded under her touch, his body swaying as fragile as a reed.

"Mahad, you have to rest. I know how grave the situation is, but please—take care of yourself. I'll take care of things from here, alright?"

Shaking his head determinedly, he said, "I cannot—Pharaoh Atem needs me. And soon, when he will have to take up the throne, he'll need me more than ever."

"Mahad, there are other priests, too—the responsibility is something we are all willing to share."

He just smiled, and wrapping gentle fingers around her wrist, politely removed her hand. "Isis, you of all people should understand; we did not become Priests for ourselves, but for someone else." To make his point, he glanced at the Millennium Necklace that she wore and scoured restlessly for answers, night after night. "For their sakes, neither of us will be able to rest—not for a long time."

"I…" She couldn't deny what he was saying. They were burdened, yes, but they welcomed that burden over the alternative—over giving up on the people they swore to protect. At a loss for words, she sent him one last silent appeal. Glancing in the room at Atem once more, it struck her how small he was compared to the man he lay next to; Atem was maturing, yes, but was still so young—stuck in a place between growing and grown. Just like how Marik must have been. "…I'll leave this to you, then."

Continuing the way she had been headed, she began to walk past Mahad, when he spoke up from behind her. Isis halted in her tracks.

"As a child," he both explained and confided, "Pharaoh Atem had nightmares sometimes—nightmares where Pharaoh Akhnamkhanon disappeared completely. I know, because his frightened cries always woke me up. Afterwards, he'd run to his father's bed and lie by his side, to reassure himself that it was only a dream."

Closing her eyes, Isis refrained from looking back into the room.

"I see."

The rosy sun began to light up the palace as she went her way, the harbinger of the new dawn stinging her eyes, glaring rays swallowing up her field of vision like a gluttonous snake. As everyone else awoke, it would just be a matter of time before they discovered the old pharaoh's body and the changing times.

Fear and doubt for the future arose in her stomach—a feeling she hadn't felt in a very long time. She touched a finger to the Millennium Necklace, but as with the faded night and the countless nights before, there was no response to the question she needed answered most. Her vision blurred, and she let the hand fall.

She was so tired.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Buttcracks! Why is this so much longer than the chapter before? Grrr. And this was <strong>_**after **_**I tried editing for wordiness. Shows how much I know.**

**To be honest I don't even really like the events of this chapter so much; I feel like it's **_**necessary**_** to the plot, but it wasn't as fun as the next one's gonna be for me to write. And that's **_**not**_** because it's gonna have juicy bits in it. Unless Marik and Thief King Bakura are literally going to make juice together. …Gah, not **_**that**_** kind of juice! Geez, I'd get my mind out of the gutter except that it sort of **_**lives **_**there. My mind is a gutter hobo. What a beautifully-written metaphor.**

**Fyi I'm basing this story primarily on the canon of the **_**manga**_**, not the anime—though I might angle towards the anime continuity at times if it's fitting—which means that there aren't any diadhankhs. Yep. Not that I mind if a fanfic includes diadhankhs in it, but I do loathe the fact that they exist at all in the anime—but that's a tangent I won't go into here.**

**Last but certainly not least, a thousand thank-yous to those who've favorited, followed, reviewed, or even just read this! I lost track of things pretty quickly so I'm sorry if I didn't reply to your review, but I did read them all and they made me very happy. I love you all. There, I said it. I don't care if our love is forbidden!**


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